The Pleasure of Your Kiss (13 page)

“Tutored?” Feeling his wariness grow, Ash glanced at Luca, who was hanging on Farouk’s every word as if it would be his last. “In what subject, may I ask?”

Before Farouk could reply, Clarinda lifted her head, looked Ash dead in the eye, and said coolly, “Pleasure, Captain Burke. How to give it … and how to receive it.”

A
lthough Ash was afraid to so much as blink, there was no denying the effect simply watching Clarinda’s luscious lips form the word
pleasure
had on him. His gaze lingered on those lips, shockingly graphic images of the pleasure they might give him rioting through both his brain and his body. In seconds, the temperature in the room went from mildly warm to sweltering. From the corner of his eye, Ash saw a wide-eyed Luca snatch up a silk serviette and dab at his glistening brow.

Despite making a Herculean effort to maintain his composure, Ash still had to clear his throat before speaking. “And is this a common custom of your people?” he inquired, buying himself some time by shifting his gaze to Farouk. “Do all of your female guests receive such detailed … instruction?”

Farouk burst out laughing. “It has been too long since we were at Eton together. I had forgotten how prudish you English were.”

“From what I’ve read in the newspapers,” Clarinda said, “shocking Captain Burke should be no easy feat. During his travels in Africa, he made an extensive study of native cultures”—she hesitated for a telling moment, her eyes looking even more green than usual—“both mundane and carnal.”

“I helped him with that, you know,” Luca volunteered. “I felt it was my Christian duty as his closest friend.”

Ash slanted Luca a glance that warned him it was also his duty to hold his tongue or risk being skewered through the heart with a serving fork.

Farouk leaned forward, plainly warming to his subject. “This is not England. Here we do not shy away from discussing what transpires between a man and a woman, accepting it as one of Allah’s greatest gifts. We feel free to speak of matters that would give even the most jaded of your libertines a fit of the vapors.”

“Captain Burke does look a trifle pale at the moment, doesn’t he?” Clarinda observed, blinking innocently as she tilted her head to study him.

Farouk gently folded his fingers over her hand. “Contrary to what you Westerners may believe of us, we are not barbarians. We do not enjoy forcing women to our will. It was actually Clarinda’s idea that she be trained in the arts of love. When she arrived here three months ago, she expressed an eagerness to learn all there was to know about making a man happy.”

“Perhaps you should allow for more time,” Ash said smoothly. “Especially for her to master a skill so contrary to her nature.”

Clarinda’s mocking expression tightened to a glare. The fingers of her free hand closed around the stem of her goblet, making Ash wonder if he was about to get its contents hurled into his face.

Farouk brought the back of Clarinda’s hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss upon it. “She says she does not wish to disappoint me when she comes to my bed for the first time.”

Ash jerked his gaze away from the sight of Clarinda’s captive hand being caressed by the sultan’s lips and returned it to her face, a surge of dangerous jubilation coursing through his heart. He had not come too late after all. Clarinda had yet to share the sultan’s bed. It took him a moment to remember the jubilation should have belonged to his brother, just as she did.

“How very magnanimous of her,” he murmured.

“I am not a patient man,” Farouk said. “And as I am sure you can imagine, I did not wish to wait to sample the delights promised by her gaze. What man in his right mind would? But how was I to deny her when she offered to willingly—and eagerly—bestow upon me the prize of her innocence?”

Ash went rigid, his breath freezing in his throat. Suddenly, it was Clarinda who could not meet
his
eyes. Clarinda who found something of such tremendous interest in the bottom of her wine goblet that she could not seem to tear her gaze away from it. The casual observer might have mistaken the flush of rose blooming over her cheekbones for a modest blush.

Studying her downturned face, the graceful curve of her cheek, Ash said quietly, “I can see why a man might be willing to make any sacrifice to win such a prize.”

Her gaze flew up to meet his as Farouk nodded his approval. “Her tutors assure me she is an apt and eager pupil and will soon be ready to receive my attentions and become my wife.”

While Ash was still trying to absorb that new blow on top of all the others he’d been forced to endure that night, Luca piped up to ask, “You mean one of your wives, don’t you? Is it not your custom to take more than one wife, as well as many concubines?”

“That is true, but Clarinda knows she will be first, both in my harem and in my heart.”

For how long?
Ash wondered cynically as Farouk gave Clarinda another doting look. Until Farouk rescued some other nubile young beauty from the slave market? “Just when is this momentous occasion to take place?”

“In less than a fortnight,” Farouk replied. “It was also Clarinda’s idea that we postpone our nuptials until she turned one-and-twenty.”

Ash sucked a mouthful of wine directly into his windpipe. As he exploded in a fit of coughing, one of the servants rushed forward to dutifully pound him on the back. Clarinda’s eyes flared in warning, then narrowed to emerald slits. Ash waved the servant away, hoping Farouk would attribute the tears of mirth sparkling in Ash’s eyes to the effects of the wine.

“Perhaps you and Mr. D’Arcangelo could delay your departure until after the wedding,” Farouk suggested earnestly. “It would do me and my bride a great honor if you would join us in our celebration.”

Ash lifted his goblet in an impromptu toast. His words might be for Farouk but his gaze was for Clarinda alone. “You honor your humble guests more than we deserve, Your Majesty. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

F
arouk slipped into the gardens of his palace shortly after sunrise, hoping to escape the watchful eyes of his guards. They tended to dog his every step, even when he was safely sequestered behind the walls of the palace. After yesterday morning’s attack, he’d had no choice but to heed his uncle’s advice and forgo the luxury of his morning ride. At least when he was cantering back and forth across the desert with sand stinging his eyes and the hot wind whipping through his hair, he could pretend he was a free man, a man not bound by centuries of bloodshed and tradition.

Of late those moments of freedom were becoming even more rare and precious. If the women of his harem weren’t clamoring for his attentions, then Tarik was hammering away at him to spend more of his gold fortifying the palace’s already formidable defenses or to prove his supremacy by declaring war on some rival sultan or tribe. His uncle had always equated peace with cowardice and believed every true warrior should go to his grave with a sword in his hand and a battle cry on his lips.

His uncle’s keenest shame was that his own brother—Farouk’s father—had slumped over dead in the middle of a feast celebrating a truce between himself and one of El Jadida’s oldest enemies. He hadn’t even had the good grace to be poisoned. It had always been said among his people that Farouk’s father possessed the heart of a lion, but in the end his mighty heart had failed him. His unexpected death had resulted in Farouk being summoned back to Morocco to assume the weighty mantel of sultan after completing only one year at Cambridge.

Sometimes Farouk felt as much a prisoner of these walls as the slaves who had served his family for generations. He was grateful for the distraction Captain Burke’s arrival had provided and could only pray wedding and bedding Clarinda would ease the terrible restlessness that seemed to plague his every step these days.

He followed the wending flagstones that led to his favorite haven.

The small garden sat on a slight rise, the sheer drop at its far end making a wall unnecessary for defense and allowing for an unobstructed view of the rambling coastline. On gusty days like this, the briny scent of the sea was borne on the wings of the wind, allowing a man to dream of other shores, other lives he might have lived.

A sharp stab of disappointment waylaid Farouk at the mouth of the garden. It seemed he should have risen even earlier on this fine morning. Someone had already laid claim to his refuge. At moments like this he feared he had been cursed with his uncle’s temperament after all because suddenly all he wanted to do was roar with rage and demand the head of the unfortunate interloper.

But when he realized who it was, he made an abrupt about-face, hoping to slink out of the garden before she could spot him.

“Oh, Your Majesty, is that you?” she called out. “You mustn’t rush off! Why don’t you come and tarry for a while?”

Farouk halted in his tracks, cringing at the unabashed delight in that voice. He’d rather face a horde of bloodthirsty marauders scaling the palace walls with daggers clenched between their teeth than spend a moment in Miss Penelope Montmorency’s company.

He couldn’t have said what he found so grating about Clarinda’s companion. There was something about the way she looked at him, those earnest blue eyes of hers magnified by the thick lenses of her spectacles.

He was certainly no stranger to the demands of women. But he had learned early on that most of them could be placated by pretty words complimenting their charms, priceless baubles that matched the shade of their eyes, or the promise of an extra night in his bed. The problem with Miss Montmorency was that he could never quite figure out what she wanted from him, which left him feeling utterly helpless to provide it. And he’d spent enough time feeling helpless when at the mercy of the bullies at Eton.

He slowly pivoted on his heel, his usual affable smile failing him. All he had to offer was a curt nod. “Miss Montmorency.”

Undaunted by his lack of enthusiasm, she gave the space next to her on the stone bench a cheerful pat. “Won’t you join me? It’s such a lovely morning! I simply adore taking the air before the heat of the day sets in. I discovered this corner of the garden just yesterday, and I do believe it’s fast becoming my favorite place in all the world!”

Wonderful,
Farouk thought, scowling as he watched a gust of wind tease a peach-colored tendril from the knot of curls clustered at the crown of her head. Despite being garbed in what appeared to be a dozen layers of diaphanous silk, she still looked like a plump English rose that had inexplicably bloomed in the desert.

He lowered himself stiffly to the stone bench, managing a grunt of assent. The charming banalities that normally tripped from his tongue seemed to have deserted him along with his smile.

His failure to uphold his end of the conversation did not seem to dampen Miss Montmorency’s irrepressible spirits. She retrieved the wicker basket sitting on the ground by her feet and placed it on her lap. “One of your cooks was kind enough to pack this basket for me so I could break my fast while gazing out over the sea.” She peeled back a scrap of crimson satin to reveal a nest of freshly fried
ktefa
. The traditional pastries were dusted with sugar and drizzled with warm honey. “Would you care to join me?”

To Farouk’s keen humiliation, his stomach rumbled a reply before he could. He gazed down at her offering as if it were a basket of cobras, holding his breath so as not to be seduced by the heavenly aroma of the pastries wafting to his nose. When he had returned from Cambridge, it had taken him nearly a year of constant training—all conducted beneath the ruthless tutelage of his uncle—to hone away the softness around his middle and carve what remained into rock-solid muscle.

He had accomplished that feat only by denying himself such indulgences. Although a feast was spread before him nearly every night, he took great pride in choosing only the freshest fruits and the leanest cuts of meat to take the edge off his hunger. He supposed that a part of him believed if he allowed himself so much as a taste of something sweet, he might not stop eating until he had gorged himself right back into being the pudgy poltroon his classmates at Eton had mocked so mercilessly.

As his uncle had reminded him hundreds of times since his return to Morocco, such a man could never be fit for the title of sultan.

“I have already broken my fast,” he said gruffly, although the handful of pomegranates, nuts, and dates he’d gulped down upon arising had only whetted his appetite for something more substantial.

“Suit yourself,” she sang out like the most shameless of temptresses, her full cheeks dimpling into a teasing smile. “But I wager you’ll be sorry.”

As he watched her sink her teeth into one of the flaky pastries, he already was. She ate with the unabashed relish of a woman who truly enjoyed food and wasn’t afraid to show it. There was something undeniably sensual about her enthusiasm for such a basic pleasure. It transformed the simple fare into a feast for the senses. Her pink tongue darted out to lick a creamy dollop of custard from the corner of her lips, and Farouk realized with a jolt of shock that beneath his loose trousers his body had begun to stir with another sort of hunger altogether.

He was accustomed to being courted, seduced, and pleasured by breathtakingly beautiful women who had been taught erotic tricks unknown even to the authors of the
Kama Sutra
. Unless her lips were wrapped around him, he had never become aroused simply by watching a woman dine.

Deeply troubled, he touched a hand to his brow. Perhaps hunger was simply making him light-headed. That was a far more comforting thought than admitting that all the blood that was supposed to be circling through his head was now rushing to some other, less discriminating part of his anatomy.

Hoping to hide his consternation, he asked, “Have you been made comfortable during your stay at my palace, Miss Montmorency?”

“Most assuredly. But we mustn’t stand on ceremony!” Returning the basket to its place at her feet, she licked the last of the sugary crumbs from her lips. “Everyone has always called me Poppy. Well,” she added apologetically, “everyone except for those nasty girls at Miss Throckmorton’s Seminary for Young Ladies who insisted upon calling me Piggy.”